


foxtrot uniform charlie kilo

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to get into the soulmates exclusive apartments outside of uni and escape their shitty roommates, Killian and Emma pretend to be soulmates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at writing shorter fic again and also wanted to do some of my favourite tropes and then Bloodhound Gang came up on shuffle, so what you see here before you is the result of that. This is definitely not a true multichapter, but a three shot. Hope you enjoy!

Will Scarlet is a bloody menace, and not in the way Killian appreciates. He likes a little mayhem in his everyday life, just to keep him on his toes, but he’d prefer to keep that mayhem out of his living space - and Will Scarlet out of his bedroom.

“In my bloody bed, mate?”

He might sound a bit more than ticked off, voice an octave higher than usual, maybe even shrill, but Will’s still half-asleep in _his_ bed and so deserves every ounce of Killian’s sharpened rage.

Will yawns and rubs at the back of his neck. “Thought it was mine. Rooms looked a bit different in the dark.”

“And the fact that you had to break in to get in here didn’t clue you in?”

Will might be the one bleary eyed and suffering from an obvious hangover, but Killian feels a throbbing in his temple too.

Perhaps he’ll turn to that drink he’s stashed in his desk, even though it is only ten in the morning and he spent the entire night at the IT helpdesk. Does Captain Morgan even care about time of day? Killian doesn’t think so.

“Thought I left it as a challenge to myself, though it wasn’t much of a challenge, come to think it.”

Killian leaves Will still yawning and turns towards his desk.

“Get out of my bed,” he grits out.

He tugs the bottom drawer open, reaching for the bottle - that isn’t there, that’s clinking at his toes without the sloshing weight of a full bottle.

Bloody fucking hell.

Killian twists around, but not fast enough to wring Will’s traitorous neck, nor does he bend fast enough to pick up the empty bottle of his very expensive rum and toss it at Will’s head.

It rolls harmlessly to the floor, the only injury being to the wall outside his bedroom door.

“You know we won’t get our safety deposit back if you keep taking chunks out of the furnishings,” Will shouts from down the hall.

“You should worry about your own safety!”

He doesn’t say this without _any_ heat, there’s still enough to make it a viable threat, but his voice tapers out as he surveys the train wreck of his room, the doorknob that Will had unscrewed - fucking _unscrewed_ \- to get into it, and the plaster and green paint falling like snowflakes over his rum and thinks -

Well, first he answers Jack Sparrow’s question. Why is the rum gone? Because of Will fucking Scarlet.

After that’s when the thought hits him, harder than the pans he can hear clattering to the floor in their shared kitchen, harder than he wants to punch Will in the face. It hits him:

He needs a new place.

-

Apparently soulmates are in this year because everyone seems to be getting one.

There’s Ruby, for one.

Ruby was a great roommate, more considerate than the stereotypical party girl persona would lead people to believe. World’s best secret actually that Ruby cleaned, cooked, and still managed to keep the fridge stocked with milk so Emma never missed out on her morning cheerios.

Ruby _was_ a great roommate until she bumped into Belle at that party, and the tale unfolded like _all_ of the great romances. You know the ones, where they stare into each other’s eyes and just _know_. Mainly because they can suddenly see. Where the world was once black and white - or only shades of red, yellow, any color of the rainbow, you name it - now it’s bursting with every single color they’ve missed out on their whole life.

Ruby bumped into Belle and suddenly she could _see_ Belle’s blue eyes instead of just the red of her lips.

And, suddenly, she wasn’t that great of a roommate after all. It took only three weeks for her to move into her girlfriend’s place and leave Emma in the kind of lurch that had her running herself ragged just to find a damn roommate.

Mary Margaret was the perfect choice.

Mary Margaret believed in romance like Emma believes in onion rings and chocolate covered strawberries, true, but romance didn’t seem to believe in her and if there was anything that bonded them, it was that. Made them perfect roommates in fact, commiserating over shitty dates and regrettable one night stands as they watched bad TV and laid across Mary Margaret’s bed.

It was the perfect arrangement, so of course, Mary Margaret had to volunteer at that animal shelter and David Nolan, great guy that he was (is) had to greet her with his “brilliant smile, _brilliant,_ Emma,” and say the words Mary Margaret’s had tattooed on her wrist since freshman year, “Hey, weren’t you the one that stole my notes in A&P?” and Mary Margaret had to sputter out the words engraved on his - and Emma did not need an A&P lesson at all, thank you very much, Mary Margaret - _gluteus maximus_ , “I needed it more than you, Mr. ‘charms the professor into giving me an A because I smile and smell nice.’”

So again, here Emma is, without an apartment to turn to because Mary Margaret’s too busy climbing Charming - excuse me - _David_ like a fucking tree on their kitchen counter.

She could bang her head against this wall with how frustrated she is, or she could check the local papers to see if there are any places available.

Emma could definitely do that. But first, the wall is calling her name and who is Emma to deny it?

-

_It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss._

“Are you going to turn off that damn album or should I?” Emma calls out to Ruby as she heads to the back of Granny’s.

Ruby who obviously can’t hear her because she’s too busy flirting with her girlfriend, soulmate, _roommate thief_.

Emma sighs and grabs the grilled cheese Granny laid out for her. Thank the gods for Granny and Kraft cheese. At least Emma can be thankful for _that._

What she can’t be thankful for is the empty booth awaiting her outside the kitchen and the newspapers sprawled across it, the Craigslist page pulled up on Emma’s laptop screen, and the millions of listings that are out of her budget, distance, and ability to tolerate weird smells and screaming neighbors.

She hip-bumps open the door and instead of her waking nightmare of the past two weeks awaiting her, there’s a new addition to the wreckage, a guy sitting at her booth and poring over her newspaper. Dark-haired, scruffy, and settled in like some kind of particularly indecent fixture.

Emma thought button-ups were supposed to be buttoned up.

“Hey,” he says when she stomps into the seat across from him, carefully doing so close enough to his feet that he’ll get the picture.

Apparently the only picture he’s interested in is the Soulmates Only apartment listing downtown.

“I have an idea,” he says.

“I’m not listening, but I am considering using deadly force,” Emma says.

He smirks and finally lifts his gaze from the newspaper. He lays it down and leans forward, giving Emma his full attention. It’s disconcerting. She supposes it’s meant to be seductive and if Emma were a bit drunker, a little less consumed with a desire for his face to meet her fist, she might be consumed with a different desire entirely.

“I’m not trying to be impertinent here -”

“And _yet_.”

He chuckles, brushing his hair back. “And _yet_ , I see that you’re looking for an apartment, which coincidentally is what I’ve been doing in that booth -” He points to the booth behind him. “For the past couple of hours. It’s gotten to the point where I’m ready to give up or attempt something totally insane.”

“Like bothering the woman in the booth behind you?” Emma says.

She’s intrigued, but she isn’t stupid. If this isn’t some kind of come on, she’ll eat her hat. Or, at least dig it up from wherever she’s stuck it. She’ll need it soon anyway. It’s getting colder and her ears and frostbite don’t get along too well.

“Like introducing myself. Killian Jones. I go to the uni, living on the main campus at the moment in the Gold dorms, 2nd Floor, Room 2B, with my roommate Will Scarlet. I bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this.”

“Actually, I’m just wondering how you get your hair that way,” she says drily and gives him her best fuck off smile.

If only her best worked.

He grins again. “It’s all natural, darling. And I know you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this as you would’ve used…” He licks his bottom lip and Emma follows the motion, angry at herself for doing so when the words that follow are, “ _deadly_ force already if you weren’t,” said with all the effect of a, you guessed it, come on.

Straightening, Killian’s voice evens out and he says, “The reason is that Will Scarlet is the worst roommate in the world and if I don’t get out of there soon, I’m going to end up on your 10 o'clock news. I mean all the major networks. I might even make the world news circuit.”

Emma looks back down at the listing. “Oh no, no, _no_ ,” she says, shaking her head.

“You’re looking at this all the wrong way, darling - which, I’d love to know your name.”

“We all love what we can’t have,” Emma says. “The answer is no way in hell, heaven, or whatever beyond you believe in. I don’t _know_ you. I’m not going to pretend to be your soulmate just to get an apartment.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but looking at her face for a moment longer, slumps down into the seat instead.

“I can see I won’t change your mind.”

He almost sounds defeated.

“You’re right.”

“But if you do -”

Killian jumps out of his seat as Emma groans in frustration. Disappearing into his booth, he reemerges only moments later with a card. He looks almost embarrassed as he hands it to her, and it’s only when she reads it that she understands why.

“Your roommate design these?” Emma asks, snorting.

“Was it the ‘KJ, not BJ (but he’s up for that if you’re interested)’ that clued you in?” Killian asks.

“No it was the Scarlet Industries scrawled in the bottom corner,” she says.

Killian raises an eyebrow, something like pride and wonder in his expression as he says, “You can decipher that?”

“I’ve had practice with shitty handwriting during Forensics 100,” Emma says.

“Well. If you do change your mind, feel free to call or text that number, or drop me an email. I’m in a desperate situation…”

He leaves room for her name. Emma just stares at him.

Sighing, he gives up with a grin that is less weary than it is highly amused. Emma suspects Killian would be laughing if he thought it would help his cause.

“And yours seems pretty desperate, too. Think on it, sleep on it, dream of…”

Her eyes flash warning signs. His scream danger.

A match made in heaven.

“...a beautiful apartment with a roommate that comes with excellent references and always picks up the milk.”

She actually finds herself considering it until sanity kicks in and she waves him away.

“Later, Jones,” she says.

-

“So, what did Mr. Handsome and Obviously Interested want?” Ruby asks.

“Go kiss your girlfriend and leave me be,” Emma hisses.

“Someone’s testy,” Ruby says. “Maybe you should consider Killian’s offer.”

Emma narrows her eyes and grabs her friend around the wrist before she can pull away.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he’s in my web design class.”

Ruby shrugs. Emma doesn’t let go.

“You told him to come over here,” Emma says matter-of-factly.

“He needs an apartment. You need one too. I thought I could help,” Ruby says.

Emma groans. “I appreciate the help, but…”

“Don’t help?” Ruby supplies.

“Don’t help,” Emma confirms and they leave it at that.

-

_They_ , meaning Ruby and Emma of course. Emma and Killian, however?

-

It’s desperation that has her at the Gold dorms, 2nd floor, Room 2B at 1pm on a Saturday, banging on the door and praying that he isn’t in class and he has a couple of hours to spare.

“Ah, I’d greet you properly, but I don’t know your name. Your friend was pretty insistent that I get it from your mouth.”

It takes a moment for her to respond. She’s only human and any human confronted with a bare-chested Killian Jones might flounder a bit. There’s one thing to see his chest hair peeking through a button up shirt, it’s another to see the muscles ripple in his stomach as he nervously scratches at the back of his neck and rocks back on his feet.

She must’ve woken him up - from a studying session no doubt. He has book face.

“Emma, Emma Swan,” she answers after a beat too long.

“Emma, you can come in if you wish, or we can go to the common room. You’re here to discuss my proposition, right?”

She raises a brow at his offer to go to the common room. You’d think he’d jump at the chance to get her ensconced in his room. _She’d_ think that at least, up until this moment when he looks sleep soft, without even that smirk she’s sure he gets as much mileage out of as he can.

“I don’t know what kind of vetting process they have, so I have a list of things to know about me, and you said you had references? We can combine.”

She says this all in a blurted way, bouncing on her own toes and fisting her own hands, _not_ nervous, but oh so desperate.

Calming herself a little, she says, “That is if the apartment looks as good as the pictures on Craigslist make it seem.”

“Oh, are we going on a trip?”

Ah, there’s the smirk. Emma feels a little better seeing it.

“If you have the time? I’ll drive.”

He nods. “I’d ask you to wait in here while I get dressed but I think I hear Will waking and I don’t want you to suffer that, so I’ll meet you in the common room…”

“Emma,” he says finally, her name husky on his tongue.

She’s going to hate that damn accent of his if they get this apartment, but she’s jumping ahead of herself. They haven’t even seen it yet.

Emma’s seen the words written across David’s ass though. Green ink, too, of the color of Mary Margaret’s eyes, which Emma got a good look at before she ran from the apartment and drove to the library to pound out her own list of references.

“We need a ‘how we found out we were soulmates’ story,” Killian says before he closes the door. He’s quiet and leans in close enough that only she can hear him when he says, “Though I’m sure thinking of one for us will be easy.”

He closes the door with a wink and Emma trails towards the common room, fist pressed against her mouth to keep from screaming.

They’re _going_ to get this apartment and she _already_ hates his damned voice.


	2. Chapter 2

“Look, Emma, why not go for that one over there?”

He points at the billboard advertising “Speed Dating for Those Tatted Few,” but she doesn’t even lift her eyes from the road this time. Emma was more than willing to do that to glare at him while he read over her list, but a prospective love story is seemingly out of bounds, even though there’s a world of soulmate stories at their fingertips, a whole _world_ of them.

Killian raises her list again. She managed to give no more information than a search through the college directory would, her list too short to cover more than the basics: Emma Swan, 24 year old Criminology Grad with an interest in law enforcement.

There’s one item that gets him though, and he murmurs aloud, “You took kickboxing and currently your workout regimen is yoga, taekwondo, and…”

“And? There’s no ‘and.’”

“ _And_ ignoring every single one of my suggestions,” he says.

Right on cue, she glares at him, one hand leaving the wheel to adjust the mirror, catching him better in her view. He grins at her.

“Come on, Emma, we can spin any mad tale we want about a first meeting, first kiss, hell, a first punch to the face. That one would be well suited for the expression you’re giving me right now.”

“So what, you’re supposed to have my knuckles tatted on your back? Or you’ve been dreaming about that punch to the face for years?”

She hums, a musical quality to the sound, a bit like the chorus to a song he knows, but can’t recall at the moment - Emma’s smile is small, but it’s there.

He pushes a little more.

“There are so many stories to choose from, Emma, but you refuse to entertain a single one.”

_Or_ she just refuses to entertain him. He’s leaning towards the latter.

“We keep it simple,” she says flatly. “Colors. We couldn’t see anything but black and white until we met each other, and now every second spent together brings a new color into our lives. My first color was blue, yours was green.”

“Your excitement is palpable,” he comments.

It earns him a sharp swing of her head, a cutting glare, and the snap of her tongue. Forget triple threat, she’s gone straight for triple assault.

“I don’t have to be excited. I just have to make it work, but I can’t do that if you’re not serious about this.”

She tenses, hands gripping the wheel tightly, so Killian loses the joking tone for a moment to say, “What part of ‘I’m willing to act as if I’m everything you’ve ever dreamed of’ makes you think I’m not serious about this?”

Emma snorts and says, “Everything I’ve ever dreamed of?”

“You’ve yet to make me privy to your deepest, darkest secrets, so I’m forced to make assumptions,” Killian says.

“And you assume that?”

“I assume that you’d be looking for a partner who can match you in all aspects. Would this be untrue?” he probes.

She turns away.

It’s as much a yes as he’s going to get.

“So, what you’re saying is that if we met in the ring, you’d be able to hold your own?” Emma asks, words teasing.

Going on the defensive would be easy for her, but he suspects that the offensive is more her style. She settles into her combatting role easily, her hands relaxing on the wheel, one falling to rest on her knee and tapping to a lazy beat.

_This,_ the baring of her teeth in the mirror, so close to a real smile that it’s practically rising in her cheeks - this is the kind of mayhem Killian likes.

“You are a knockout, Emma, truly, but I don’t fall so easily,” he says.

“Give me five minutes and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“Perhaps. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He quiets and shifts gears in one excited breath. “Maybe _that’s_ how we met. You punched the colors into my eyes.”

“That sounds less soulmates and more head trauma,” Emma says.

“No, it’s a mutation. It’s a very _groovy_ mutation.”

She bends her brows together, mouth twisting up.

“We’re not X-Men,” Emma says.

“Don’t give up hope just yet. You could still sprout wings.”

“And fly myself right out of this conversation,” she mutters. “Colors, Killian. We’re doing colors.”

Her tone broaches no argument, so Killian gives it five minutes of silence before he points out the window again and says, “I didn’t know they had a database for soul marks, did you?” He studies the brown freckles dotting her neck with interest.

She doesn’t lift her eyes from the road this time either. “No,” she says, flicking on the radio fast enough to drown out his retort.

-

Emma’s only seconds away from carving the words into her hands. Colors. Her first color was blue.

It’s not like it’s that hard to remember when Killian keeps directing looks over his shoulder, over Mulan’s shoulders, staring her into the floor every chance he gets and drawing her into his gaze for longer than necessary. It’s all a part of the act, Emma reminds herself, but it’s hard to remember that when he’s playing it so well that they could almost pass for Mary Margaret and David levels of lovey-dovey.

“Renting to soulmates is a tradition that’s been in my family for generations,” Mulan explains, eyeing them frankly.

“Let’s not break from tradition, then. We’d be happy to submit blood tests if need be,” Killian says.

Emma’s eyes widen. No, she would _not_ be happy to submit blood tests.

“No!” she blurts.

When both their eyes swivel to her, Killian’s warning, Mulan’s confused, she rubs at her arm and shrugs uncomfortably. “I, mean, the last time they drew blood, for the confirmation, I freaked out so badly _Killian_ had to hold my hand the entire time. I’m not sure it’s ever fully recovered.”

She laughs in a nervous way that maybe could pass for joking? In some world? Thankfully, Killian picks up the slack so she has a chance to pick her dignity up off the floor.

Nodding, he smiles widely and says, “It could be no worse than when you introduced me to the color red.”

“Red?” Mulan asks.

“I mistakenly believed that she’d refrain from attempting murder in the ring. You’d think she’d _want_ her soulmate to live a long and prosperous life.”

“Your mistake,” Emma says, shooting daggers at him. Definitely his mistake.

She supposes she should be grateful because Mulan buys the lie. Yet, when Killian mimics Emma’s fist punting his face well enough to make Mulan laugh aloud, Emma just feels a strong urge to actually punch him. But that would only prove his “Emma might actually kill me one day” theory right.

But does she really want to prove that wrong?

Emma finds the answer to that after he “recounts” his introduction to the color purple. While they’re hashing out some of the finer details, Killian pats her on the back, smiling so lovingly that she can hear Mary Margaret ringing the wedding bells. With a sigh, he says, “Bruises and bloodied noses aside, Emma is a gentle soul.”

Emma pinches him under the table with all judges in agreement, the audience already weighed in, ladies and gentlemen, for those just tuning in, that answer is a resounding “No!”

-

“You’re a good liar,” Emma comments later, while they’re sitting at Granny’s, tearing through their burgers - Emma in a desperate urge to fill the space where unease has been curling it’s greedy little fingers.

He waits until he swallows, thankfully, to say, “Am I? Didn’t think you noticed when you were too busy fighting me at every turn. Emma, my leg is bruised.”

“It isn’t often a lie doesn’t set off my lie detector, but when you said that you’ve yet to see anything more beautiful than the green of my eyes, I almost believed you.”

She knows she’s being foolish and setting herself up for some stupid innuendo, but she shrugs and picks up an onion ring anyway. Emma can handle an innuendo.

“I am quite convincing, aren’t I? It’s easier to lie when you twist it with the truth.”

She pauses with her onion ring halfway to her mouth. “So, wait, what was the truth?”

“I’ve been seeing in color my whole life, and _I’ve yet to see anything more beautiful than your eyes._ ” He winks and almost wistfully, says, “Although that smile is a close second.”

Emma lets her grin fade and stares.

He stares back.

It’s goddamn eerie how guileless he looks when he isn’t wearing that stupid smirk.

“You’re a good liar,” she repeats and eats her onion ring.

-

“Are we going to argue about this or are you going to lay down the rules already, Swan?” Killian asks amidst the boxes surrounding him on the floor.

“Swan?” she asks.

“I figure that’s what we should call each other when we’re fighting. _Swan_. _Jones_. It just sounds so much angrier, and I’m sure my last name will bite coming from your mouth,” he replies.

He moves across the floor to put himself into her view, but she ignores his waving hands. Rude.

“ _Jones_.

An acknowledgement! He marks down this success, and clutches at his chest. “Ooh, I’m getting shivers.”

“Shut up. Okay, I know what we’re going to have to do. Shut up and listen.”

She takes a deep breath and reads off her phone screen:  “The rules are as follows: one, we keep to our own domains. The less frequent we see each other, the better. Two, we stick to our story. Let me repeat, we _stick_ to our story. Four, No loud music, I don’t need to confirm your shit taste.”

(Killian grins. Emma must not be a fan of Britney Spears.)

“Five, we’ll clean up after ourselves, and lastly, TV is mine Tuesday nights.”

“The less frequent we see each other, the better? I’m hurt, Emma,” and he is, absolutely, totally hurt. All she has to do is look at his face to know it, but her phone keeps her gaze lowered. Why she’d prefer that device over his excellent company escapes him.

“Oh, so we’re back to ‘Emma’ now,” she says.

Her fingers tap away at her phone while she still pointedly avoids his gaze. Well, it is a good effort, he has to admit.

“This isn’t a fight,” he says. “This is a plea.”

“A plea?”

Her eyes flicker up. He has her now.

“I need the TV Tuesday nights. It’s my only free night, Emma.”

She smiles and Killian relaxes.

Easy pickings. He doesn’t even see the attack coming until Emma’s smile turns feral and she says, “That’s too bad. TV’s still mine.”

“Forget what I said about you sprouting wings, you already have your claws.”

Emma’s eyes travel back down to her phone, but not before she laughs, an honest laugh, and he can’t even find it in himself to even pretend hurt when her eyes light up as she’s butchering his accent.

“ _Groovy_.”

-

She should see the rule breaking coming a mile away, the same way she knew that he was trouble when he first slipped into her booth, the same way she knew that taking all those classes sophomore year would turn her into a zombie, the same way she knew that she’d never get out of that cycle of foster home after foster home if she didn’t get herself out of it.

Emma should see it, but who can blame her for being blind when he’s being so considerate about it all, taking the second bedroom instead of the first because Emma’s sensitive to light at night. When he buys pizza and refrains from disgusting toppings, no anchovies, no pineapples, and even throws in the stuffed crust. Hell, even when he lets her shower first - he’s just being so considerate that Emma’s too busy being freaked out by and suspicious of it all to see it coming.

And it starts small, really, and to be fair, Emma’s the one who drags herself in at three in the morning the first week, so it’s half her fault that Killian’s up to even make her breakfast.

He’s careful with it, creeping out of his room before Emma can disappear into hers and she’s just too sleepy to argue when he places his hand on her back, circling them back towards the kitchen.

“I doubt you’ve eaten. Grilled cheese?” he suggests.

 “Is there milk?”

His chuckle is low, as quietly tired as she feels. “It’s almost as if you expect me not to keep my promises.”

Emma makes a noise, caught somewhere between a huff and an exhausted moan, and drops her head down on the kitchen table.

“I’m a man of my word, Emma,” he says.

“I’m sure you’d like to think that.”

“Have I given you any reason to doubt me? Emma, look at me, you’re starting to snore. Emma, have I told you a lie?”

She blinks her eyes open to see him standing at the door of the fridge, the Kraft in his hand, the bread bag hanging from his teeth.

As he’s placing them on the counter, she says, “I’m not sure. You’re quite talented, Killian.”

“That could be a compliment if you tried a little harder,” he says.

Emma makes another sound. “I tried,” she says, and slumps farther down.

She wakes up to the smell of grilled cheese and Killian’s hand gently rubbing her shoulder. She falls asleep with her clothes still on, to the sound of Killian’s door shutting in his room and the birds chirping in the distance.

This is how people get pulled into a life of crime.

This is how you end up wearing the stolen watch while your boyfriend drives off into the sunset, leaving you to take the fall for his crime.

This is how your whole life gets fucked up.

She should see it coming.

She doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

                01. We keep to our own domains

-/-

It’s going down. She’s yelling timber.

Or rather, she’s bumping into the table that he’s so carefully setting when he shouldn’t even be here. His Monday schedule’s supposed to keep him out of the house in the evenings. Emma was supposed to have the apartment to herself - and she was going to spend that time so well, ordering cheese fries and crashing out on the couch.

Whatever’s bubbling in that pot on the stove is most certainly _not_ cheese fries.

It smells so much better.

“I thought I’d whip us up some dinner since my class got cancelled,” Killian explains.

He flashes her a bright smile and swipes his hand over his brow. She should be grossed out because there is sweat there, but it just makes her shake her own head an imperceptible amount because it smells good enough that he’s allowed to break a sweat over it.

“We need to invest in a fan. The kitchen gets a little too hot when you’re cooking-” His grin grows wider and his brow lifts in forewarning of the words that spills from his mouth, “- and when you have such a lovely lass to attend to.”

“Simmer down,” Emma says.

She can shut down his wild flirtations, but she can’t stop herself from taking her designated seat at the table because she’s a weak, weak woman and that -

“Mushroom Bolognese,” Killian says to the question she didn’t ask.

It smells like heaven and Emma’s ready to brave hell for a taste. The way Killian wiggles his eyebrows as he brings it over, he knows it too.

Emma’s going to drop kick him into the Underworld if he doesn’t stop leaning over her like that.

“Tell me when, lass,” he says.

She lets him overfill her plate before she says, “Thanks.”

Eager to dig in, Emma lifts her fork but, as she’s doing so, she makes the mistake of looking at him as he’s dishing some out on his own plate. She doesn’t really have dinners like this. She and Ruby lived off of Granny’s take out, eating at random times of the day and night. Mary Margaret and she always made sure to have at least one formal meal a weak, but they usually spent that on the couch.

This is not like that. Killian’s set the table for them - let her repeat: so very carefully - and he’s made this whole grand meal (there’s a freaking salad in the middle of the table, which she should’ve noticed but to be fair she was a little busy happily suffocating on the scent of _mushroom Bolognese_ ).

It would be rude for her to not wait for him.

She drops her hand and watches as he moves to put the pot back on the stove.

“You don’t need to wait for me,” he says.

“What?” Emma says.

“I’m a perceptive man,” he says, turning to her so she can see him tapping himself on the head. _Perceptive_. “And your tapping on the plate can only mean one thing.”

Emma drops her fork in surprise and curses him as he tosses his head back and laughs. She didn’t even realize she was doing it - literally what the fuck.

He keeps laughing even as he gets another clean fork for her because hers is lost to the floor that both of them have yet to sweep - and he keeps laughing as she snatches it out of his hand, intent on not letting him get the chance to run his fingers over her own like he does on every occasion he can.

Killian takes his seat at the opposite end of the table and Emma’s unwilling to turn away first and give him the satisfaction of digging in like the hungry, hungry hippo he probably _doesn’t_ think she is because she doubts he’s ever been stuck indoors playing that broken board game with a bunch of other bored, frustrated foster kids.

She offers him a glare.

In return, he offers her a smile and lifts his glass -

“Thanks for waiting, Emma,” he says.

And toasts the air, leaving Emma holding her fork tight in surprise.

-

Grilled cheese at 3AM becomes mushroom Bolognese becomes lobster and biscuits (“fresh lobster, Emma. No, I didn’t steal it off the back of a truck. I have _connections_.”)

Becomes Emma getting used to eating like a queen.

Which is what he calls it because she would never make that comparison. She has no idea what royals eat although she is sure Ruby would tell her all about it if Emma asked. She’d tell her how they dress, too, and what color, shape, and size their soulmarks are. She’d probably look at Emma’s freckles with the same intensity Killian did and point out that they could be a constellation pointing her way to her soulmate.

Which would be super awkward for this living arrangement.

 _Anyway_.

Royals certainly don’t eat what Emma’s making on the stove. She’s no gourmet chef - let Killian have that title, she has no problem giving him that - but she can put together a meal, especially one as simple as this.

“Tacos?”

Emma doesn’t falter as he steps into the kitchen. Instead, she tugs the warm shells out of the oven, lays them on the stove, and puts away the oven glove all before she responds to him.

“I thought it’d be a good change of pace. We can’t live off of your limited cooking skills.”

“Limited?”

He looks so offended that she says, “Actually, I thought you’d appreciate it. Mondays are rough,” before she has the chance to rethink it.

“That they are,” he agrees.

He stares too long. Emma looks away, but can’t ignore his murmured, “Luckily for me, I have you to come home to.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my tacos,” she says.

She swipes at the sweat on her brow. Definitely time to invest in a fan.

-

                02. We stick to our story

-/-

The difficulty with this whole “everyone in the world has a soulmate and it can manifest itself in any way from a tattoo to dreaming about them to not being able to see color until you meet them to even hearing their voice singing cheesy love songs in your head at the most inappropriate of moments” is not that it makes finding your soulmate near impossible or just a ridiculous trial and error affair, but that it’s so easy to feign.

And as lies always go, one lie leads to another, and soon you’re staring at your fake-soulmate roommate while she bites at her lip in a way that has you clenching your fists to keep the blood in your hands from making its merry way downwards even though that should be the last thing on your mind when she has admitted that she told your friendly neighbor that she could see color before she met you.

Killian’s a “lying liar who lies,” and for someone who can see right through all of them, Emma’s remarkably bad at sticking to her own.

Their own.

“We can resolve this,” Killian says quickly.

The stricken look doesn’t fade. Instead, she bites her lip a little harder, her own hands folding up like she might punch something. He was looking forward to meeting her in the ring, not getting jabbed in their living room.

“How can we possibly do that?” Emma demands. “Lance is nice but he’s not that nice, and he and Mulan are really close. He will tell her.”

“What is there to tell?” Killian says, scrambling as he looks over her, at the worry dipping her brow and he didn’t notice this earlier today but there’s a freckle on the bridge of her wrinkled nose. It’s just one, but that one brown, crooked circle is enough. He smiles and says, “You didn’t see color when we first met. That’s just the story we tell because the weirder truth is that _I_ couldn’t see color until I ran into you and your freckles are always a perfect match to this rash I get in rather unfortunate areas.”

“That’s disgusting,” Emma scoffs.

He’s undaunted. She should know this by now, but letting her lips tug up at the corners only encourages him. Not that he really needs the encouragement - her grudging smile is more of an added bonus, a pat on the back, “You’re getting somewhere. Keep it up.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” he says.

She shrugs. “You have to be a little more convincing than that.”

He steps towards her and she isn’t following his lead as she moves in, just stepping up to his challenge and offering one of her own when she follows his gaze down to her shoulder where her sheer shirt offers no concealment for the patch of freckles on her upper arm.

“Do you think -” Killian reaches out for her shoulder, and she full-body shudders when he touches her beneath the shirt. Still, she doesn’t push him away as he touches over every freckle, minutely shuddering himself at how warm she is and the smooth muscle of her arm. “- that if I touch you like this, like I’ve memorized their pattern, that they’ll believe me when I say that these freckles are a perfect match to the ones on my arse?”

She giggles, falling into him as she does so. Killian holds out a hand to steady her, wrapping it around her waist and drawing her closer. His breath catches as he realizes just how Emma fits in his hand, her waist almost tiny enough that his hand spans it completely.

“That’s disgusting,” she repeats and pokes at his chest.

Still, for a brief moment, he holds her there and she doesn’t move away - and it’s kind of the perfect moment for a soulmate revelation. Emma looks up at him and he lets himself wish he could hear her voice singing in his head or have this moment be the one he’s been dreaming about his whole life.

Instead, it’s just a moment that she ends with a shake of her head and a giggled, “I think they’ll believe you. Although, Lance will never look at you the same.”

“I should hope not. Whatever would Gwen have said if she knew the way he looked at me before?” he teases.

“Stop trying to steal her man,” Emma says.

She doesn’t even turn around when she says it, but there’s another patch of freckles at the back of her neck and Killian merely furrows his brow.

That’s the patch that’ll be on his inner thigh.

-

“What were you thinking exactly?” Ruby asks.

She sounds...concerned, and Emma’s concerned by her concern. A minute ago she was cackling at Emma’s troubles.

A minute ago she wasn't looking at Emma with her head tilted sadly to the side and her eyes filled with understanding.

“He caught me off guard with the question. I panicked,” Emma explains with a shrug.

“You never panic. Especially not over a simple ‘what’s your favorite color?’”

That’s a lie. Emma panics all the time. Yesterday it was over an assessment. The week before that, over the stuffed potatoes and peppers that she’d thrown together for dinner.

Both times, Ruby had been there - listening to her moan sadly into the phone until Killian came over to ask her whether she was prepping for a ghoulish afterlife or an exam; watching her pace through the little Skype window until Killian returned to the apartment and tucked into the meal like Emma hadn’t mildly burnt the peppers.

“You’ve seen me panic,” Emma points out.

Ruby shoots back some pointy pointers of her own, gaze pointed, head tilted pointedly and her words pricking Emma’s skin when she says, “I’ve seen you calm, too.”

Emma is quick on the uptake, has no need for the “take a look at yourself” eyebrow because she already is and correlation does not equal causation, just because Killian has stopped her from panicking twice does not imply that Emma’s panic has anything to do with him.

(That’s not even a pattern with just two instances; Ruby took Stats with her, she should know.)

So, Ruby can take her “Are you ready for your wakeup call?” face and use it on someone else.

Emma looks around the diner. The couple arguing at the table could probably use the look from how far apart they’re glowering at each other and how bored they look by their own anger. That relationship is dead in the water and Granny’s lasagna won’t save them from drowning - or indifferently drowning in each other in the homebrewed iced tea.

Emma doesn’t notice any visible soulmarks in her quick scan - not that there aren’t a billion other ways they could prove or disprove whether their love for each other is fated to be, but she could hazard a guess that whatever they have matches as well as Emma’s freckles to Killian’s (hopefully) nonexistent rash.

Yeah, they’re definitely the ones in need of a Ruby intervention.

“You’re panicking,” Ruby says. “Want me to put in a call to Killian to get his butt moving a little faster?”

Emma lifts a fry and says, “What was that? You want me to shove fries up your nose? Strange request, but if you’re certain…”

Ruby shakes her head and sighs. Emma attacks her fries with renewed vigor, suddenly in need of energy and an escape from Ruby’s continued sighs. You’d think she’d get tired after the first, but Emma’s the one that’s exhausted by it.

“Blue doesn’t have to be your favorite color,” Ruby says, looking just over Emma’s shoulder. “I’m a big fan of red.”

“Hello, darling,” Killian says, leaning over her.

She didn’t hear the bell at the door, but she can hear Ruby ringing hers as she looks _pointedly_ at the deep red of Killian’s knit sweater.

He reaches down, placing a cold hand on Emma’s bare neck and sliding it to her shoulder, already massaging the tension out of her. Ruby can stop ringing her bell (and smiling like that for the matter); Emma doesn’t need the wakeup call, thank you very much.

She’s already awake.

-

                03. No loud music

-/-

He’s never been one to resist temptation, and alas, he was not invited to spend the evening with Emma and her former roommates. So, Killian takes advantage of his solitude to work on his app for CompSci and do what he hasn’t been able to do in weeks, put his very expensive laptop speakers to work at their fullest potential and honor Will’s memory by blasting his stolen music library in their apartment.

“Are you trying to get the whole complex to ‘love you again?’?” Emma shouts.

Killian doesn’t startle.

Well, he does, but in his own slow way - in the way that he always does when Emma surprises him like this, with a flashed smile and a waggled eyebrow, and his fingers stretching out, eager to touch.

“No, just you,” Killian shouts back.

He could turn down the music to speak to her properly but there’s a sinuous sway to her hips as she walks towards him and he loses himself in it, unable to resist temptation. His laptop goes forgotten on the couch as he stands. The song is close to changing, he doesn’t know what’s coming on next - it could be anything with Will’s ranging taste - and Killian refuses to let this song pass without at least taking the chance.

Killian doesn’t quite sing along to the music that truly is blaring throughout the apartment, but he does mouth enough of the words that Emma snorts a little.

“Will you love me again, Emma?” he asks.

He offers her his hand and she looks at it skeptically.

“I haven’t had nearly enough cheap wine for this,” Emma exclaims.

Yet, she takes his hand, and he spins her in until she bumps his chest and spins back out. No longer swaying, Emma starts to sing along and she can’t really sing, but nor can he really dance at her pace so they’re laughing over each other more than they’re laughing at each other as the song ends and changes -

Will bloody Scarlet.

“How fitting,” Killian shouts over Kylie Minogue.

He can’t see if her cheeks are as flushed as his, whether she’s thinking about how she sleep-deprived-drunkenly admitted over her lobster alfredo that she _likes_ it when Ruby calls her freckles constellations or whether she’s thinking about how his first color was green (should’ve been green if there was anything right in this world) -

Killian can only hear her as she pushes back into him and sings, “...Didn’t know what to do, then there was _you_.”

“Ah, soulmate music, got to love it,” Killian says.

“It was love at first sight!”

She says it long seconds before Minogue does and doesn’t carry it nearly as well, but she’s louder and so Emma wins out and Killian has to hold her tighter, grasp her waist the way he’s wanted to do again for over two weeks now just to slow her pace before she dances right out of his arms.

Emma hops about, but he only releases her when she wiggles against him - self-preservation kicking in with a force that has him stumbling into her as she turns to face him.

And then her smile joins the brawl and throws a punch to his gut that sends self-preservation flying out the window and makes him drag her close again, bumping elbows and hips, all limbs moving ungracefully while he joins her in song.

They might be shouting it in each other’s faces but it doesn’t feel very loud when he considers his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, as out of time to the music as their dancing is.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a voice sounds over the music.

Killian drags his hands back down to Emma’s waist from where they were practically at her armpits, keeping her from falling when they both turn to look at their landlord.

Mulan brushes her dark hair back out of her reddening face and says, “I thought you two were out and left the music on.”

“Sorry, we’ll turn it down,” Killian says.

Neither he nor Emma move as Mulan gives them a really long considering look and says, “Thank you. Your fellow tenants will appreciate it.”

She locks the door behind her, slipping out as quietly as she came in, which isn’t hard when Minogue’s still singing about love at first sight at the top of her lungs.

And Emma’s murmuring it, low enough that he can’t hear, but he can feel her breath moving over him - and when he looks down she’s mouthing the words with a smile on her face that is so far from embarrassment or regret.

Killian is ridiculously bad at resisting temptation and he starts to sing again, watching her smile carve out the double dimples in her cheeks until she falls into him. Emma’s whole body shakes in his arms as she laughs against his chest, head burrowed deep enough that the sound reverberates through him. He’s too busy enjoying the feeling to sink into laughter with her, but he is grinning as they sway together at a more comfortable pace.

She lifts her head as the song fades out into something slower, and it’s like they’ve recaptured the moment from two weeks ago, her waist held in his hands, Emma looking up at him as he looks down at her and wishes -

Hell he’d take that damn rash for that look to mean anything else.

For this - leaning into each other, his head dipping down, hers tilting up towards him - to be something more than a quickly aborted movement as the song switches abruptly and Emma breaks free of his hands to say, “Mulan’s right! That’s too damn loud.”

No louder than the way she slams the door behind her, and no louder than the way his head immediately starts to pound, his jaw twitching on its own as he slumps back down on the couch.

-

                04. We’ll clean up after ourselves

-/-

Killian doesn’t do his laundry for a week and a half, and as much as Emma’s fine with letting him clean up after himself, it gets to the point of ridiculousness that’s worthy of competing with how well she goes out of her way to avoid him.

So, she makes two trips to the laundry room on her free Wednesday, ends up bringing a chair so she can do her homework while she waits for both their loads to dry.

And then, she very carefully folds his clothes and leaves them in his little black laundry basket outside of his door, not like a penance because what does she have to be sorry about? Nothing but the sorry state of her life that she’s thinking about how mundane their first meeting was, how her freckles are just freckles and they’ve both seen in color all their lives.

She should be making penance to herself for all the crap she’s running herself ragged thinking about - and that one time she gave in to her 2AM ruminations and actually visited that soul match blog and read about a hundred soulmate meetings before she got sick of looking at herself in the dimmed light of the computer screen.

Instead, he keeps letting his clothes pile up, Emma keeps doing the laundry, and she finds the dishes washed before she has a chance to think about them, the counter cleaned and the floor swept and vacuumed.

Perhaps it’s irony that they keep cleaning up each other’s messes when they’ve both made such a mess of _this_.

Or perhaps it’s just a ticking time bomb - tick, tick, tick and Emma’s on her knees picking up shards of her wine glass before she knows it with Killian beside her doing the same.

“I can handle this,” she says.

“You can speak!” Killian says, amazement coloring his voice, dyeing his eyes a darker shade of blue when she looks up at him. He carefully picks up one of the larger chunks of glass, dropping a conspiratorial whisper of, “I thought you forgot how.”

She doesn’t know how he can make light of the fact that they’ve not seen each other really for the better part of a month, that every unspoken word has twisted Emma’s stomach into knots that she can’t iron out like she does his work shirts, and that she just dropped and broke her wine glass because he’d pressed close enough for her to smell his shampoo when he reached for the cereal on the shelf behind her.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Emma says softly, her voice feeling disused despite herself.

“Good, then you won’t mind telling me about your day,” Killian says as he stands from his crouch.

She really doesn’t know how _she_ can make light of the situation, but she has her suspicions as she steps out of his way and starts to tell him about her classes while he cleans up after her - because his smile grows wider the more she speaks, and he sweeps and mops like someone used to it, and the sight settles before her eyes, comfortable enough that Emma can forget the month of silence and avoidance -

And forgets to do her own laundry for a week, ends up with it outside of her door, a little note taped to the basket to warn her about possible sweater shrinkage, and Killian’s dishes waiting in the sink for her to wash.

-

“Sounds domestic,” David comments as he wipes down the counter at Mary Margaret’s apartment.

Emma merely grunts, cheeks burning against her will. Eyes burning, too, from the heat of the stove, the garlic and onions - oh, and her nails, digging crescents into her skin at the _domesticity_ of it all.


	4. Chapter 4

                05. TV is mine Tuesday nights

-/-

Emma gets the TV Tuesday nights.

Out of all the rules they’ve broken, Killian has never managed to get her to break this one. His pouting has won him many things - the last slice of pizza, a swat on the back of the head; and his smile has won him more - lunches out with her and Ruby, a late evening wakeup call when he forgot to set his own alarm for the overnight shift. He’s teased Emma into the old movies marathon at the local theater, and he’s annoyed her into suffering an extra hour in his company just to argue over the best of the superhero cinematic universes.

Still, not one of his methods have ever made her give up on this - not feigning an injury making it impossible to leave the couch (she just sat on him until he gave up the remote - and the air in his lungs), or stealing away the TV to his room (her and Will are cut from the same cloth, although she was kind enough to leave his doorknob on his door _and_ not kind enough to make herself comfortable in his bed).

And Killian’s never fought too hard. He isn’t one to _need_ to watch his shows live, and he’s seen the disappointment on her face the one Tuesday she was stuck in traffic for an hour and ended up missing her show - they’d both dished out money for the DVR after that.

But that was _before_ the season finales of both their shows decided to air at the same time on Tuesday, his laptop crashed on him and lost him half a month’s worth of work on his project, and he’d spent most of the day trying to get it back in between his classes and his job.

Killian needs this today; and he swears he’ll say as much when Emma walks in. For now, he settles down on the couch, stretching out and letting the TV play the afternoon news while he waits.

But -

He wakes up to the Simpsons playing in the background, and a hand snaking its way beneath his back. Killian reacts instinctively, grabbing and pulling, so Emma ends up sprawled atop him in a way that is decidedly uncomfortable for several reasons when her elbow is at his chest and her legs are spread on either side of him.

“It’s Tuesday,” she says.

He opens his eyes and stares at her. She’s in her sleepwear already and that isn’t exactly helpful for the explanation he’s supposed to be giving. He loses the words somewhere between his body realizing just how close she is to him and his eyes tracing the round curves of her breasts through the sheer crop top.

Her white bra has little pink strawberries on it.

Distantly, he hears Emma say, “Killian. It’s Tuesday, it’s the finale, and the TV is mine. You can wait until after it’s over.”

“No, I can’t,” he says sternly.

He’s chastising himself with the words because he _can’t_ keep staring at her breasts, wanting what he can’t have, nor can he keep glancing at her face and hoping she’ll see what’s been in his eyes for months and feel the same _despite_ -

Emma stares down at him and _despite_ how they’ve settled back into being in each other’s space all the time, comfortable with moments like this again, it’s still a bit much to have her look at him with predatory eyes, teeth grit in determination. Especially when she sits up fully and tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, hauling him up on the couch.

Killian grabs the remote from beneath him before she can and tosses it across the room where it lands on the other couch.

“What the hell? Seriously, Killian?” she says.

He’s quite serious when he grabs her tiny waist before she can move, keeping her from crawling away across him by turning them both so her back is to the couch cushion and he’s sealed her in his embrace.

She huffs.

“Is this your plan? Crush me behind you so I’m too dead to watch TV?”

“You won’t die,” Killian says, trying to shift and keep her behind him at the same time, so he doesn’t have to see the pout forming on her face, feel her so very warm against him, or see the way her top is creeping up over her breasts and _bloody hell_ , how her bra is slipping up as well.

“Come on. Please.”

She’s practically panting, and he stops moving to look at her because she has to be purposely doing this, which is a cruelty he can’t endure, not today. She can flirt with and tease him into doing what she wants all she likes when he’s not sure to fail his class and lose out on that internship that he’s been working towards all semester - she can do it all she likes when he isn’t feeling weak enough to act on what they’ve been dancing around _despite_ -

There’s someone out there that isn’t him who wouldn’t be struggling with this, someone who could quiet Emma’s protests with a kiss -

“Oh, fuck it,” Emma says.

She pushes in and he doesn’t pull back in time _not_ to feel her lips brushing against his, not to lose all thought because her mouth is moving slowly over his, a nervous tremble to her fingers in his collar, and her body shifting so he can move in closer.

He’s draped over her when he finally starts to kiss her like he wants. It feels like he’s sparking to life and he’s hungry for that spark, chasing it in her lips. Emma chases it back, or maybe she’s seeking something else when she pulls away for a second to suck in a breath that he swallows in another kiss.

Her fingers are no longer trembling on his collar. Instead she loosens her grip to wrap her hand around his shoulder instead, nails digging in as she begins to push against him.

Killian rears back but not before catching her in one last kiss that sears through him, hot as white light and blinding as the sun. Rolling onto his back, he leaves her space to crawl over him if she wants.

Emma seemingly doesn’t want that because she doesn’t move, so he chances a glance at her, both his eyebrows shooting up at the sight of her as she slowly rises.

“What the hell?” she asks.

She lifts her hands towards her face, staring at the pale light around her fingers, travelling up her arms and to her face where her eyes are like green flames, but then her gaze shoots to him, her mouth falling open.

“Appropriate question,” he says.

“It was just a kiss. Why the fuck am I glowing?” she asks.

He has half a mind to give a smart answer to that, and most of a mind to stop himself from giving up all self-control and giving in to the furious slamming in his chest.

“You look radiant, darling,” he says, tucking all the other words down until she stops staring at him like -

“And you look radioactive,” she mutters.

She closes her eyes to the glow.

A beat passes.

Followed by another.

Emma chances another glance at him.

“I think… ” Killian starts.

But he doesn’t really have any thought he’s capable of voicing, not until she lifts an eyebrow and says, “I’ve never read a story like this.”

“A story like this? What kind of story…?”

“Killian, you’re not stupid,” she says and he’s glad of the frustration in her tone if only because it reveals just how nervous she is about this as he is.

It makes it easier, knowing that if he put his hand over her breast, he’d feel more than just her wondrous curves warming his hand, but her heart slamming just as fast and hard as his is.

“I’m not?”

“Killian,” she whines.

He’s helpless to the sound, and hopeless for her.

“Well, this is a relief.”

Emma rolls her head back and gives him a mile-long stare as she says, “That I’m glowing?”

“That you’re mine,” he replies easily.

He’s hopeless, but she’s just as hopeless, her grin softening the derisive shake of her head.

“Okay, Caveman Jones…”

She trails off. Her tongue darts out to lick at her bottom lip and then her gaze shifts from her still-glowing hands, to him, to…

He grabs her before she can move, their limbs tangling even more as she fights him and giggles, “Let me get the remote, seriously.”

“Emma, is that what you’re really concerned about right now?” he asks, chest puffing for air.

Her hands slap, and then punch at him, but she isn’t really fighting him and he isn’t _really_ stopping her, more like staring - as she ends up thrown on her back beneath him - at the dying flames in her eyes and the waning glow of her skin.

Killian must be fading out, too, because she frowns and reaches out her only free hand to track her fingers down his cheeks.

He kisses her again, a test if you will, just a peck on the lips because he needs to make sure. Killian isn’t uncertain of what he feels; he’s been certain of that for months now, and he doesn’t need a _glowing_ confirmation that Emma feels the same, all he needs is the blush on her cheeks as he pulls back and her whispered words of, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t feel the same. Just because we’ve turned into actual X-Men, that doesn’t mean we have to…”

“Is that what you want, Emma?” he asks.

He can barely hear his voice over the hum of the TV.

“No,” she says, just as quiet.

Killian leans back down, lips brushing hers as he says, “Good.”

-

She should have seen it coming, but she didn’t and now here they are and everything is _fucked_.

“Oh god,” she moans.

“Oh, _hell._ ”

He groans low in his throat, leaning further into her, breath hot on her neck and making her shiver. Emma grips his forearm tight, moaning again, quieter this time but still -

“I can’t believe this is the show you elbowed me in the face for,” Killian says.

“I can’t believe this is the show I elbowed you in the face for,” she says.

They both stare at the TV as the end credits roll and a preview for the next show fills the screen, and then Emma turns into him, nudging him out of her shoulder.

She keeps her forehead pressed to his though, both of them shifting to make it more comfortable for him to slant his mouth over hers and spark the glow in their skin -

Emma sort of wants to cry when Killian’s lips fall on hers because her show was complete shit, assassinating all her favorite characters, literally _and_ figuratively _and_ she can’t even put a word to whatever that last scene was, but mostly because Killian sat by her side the whole time, humming into her throat, carding his fingers through her hair and laying kisses across her skin every time her light dimmed.

And she’s never admitted this to anyone, but she used to seriously wonder whether her freckles were soulmarks and whether the tattoo on her wrist might someday point her to someone that would love her unconditionally. She dashed those thoughts when she met, and was subsequently abandoned by, Neal because her freckles faded and reappeared, her tattoo was a choice of her own, and nothing was unconditional, love included.

She’s never admitted how many nights she spent wondering - and how many days she laughed it off, how she groaned about Ruby seeing colors, about Mary Margaret and David’s genuinely stupid tattoos, and all the “find your soulmate” services.

So confession, self, world, anyone listening: Emma’s looked at all the stars in the sky and hoped that one day it would point her way to her soulmate, and she might be tearing up because she was the star all along.

At least, Killian keeps sweeping that word over her, teasing it at her earlobes and her neck and everywhere his mouth reaches.

“I’ll have to change my password now,” Killian says, his lips moving over hers like he can’t manage to completely pull back.

“Huh?” Emma says.

She draws back and blinks away the tears blurring her vision and making Killian’s glow even brighter.

“Secondstartotheright just doesn’t feel appropriate when you so often sit on my left,” he says.

This time she doesn’t elbow him in the face - doesn’t have to when she pushes into him and whispers, “Wanna see how low the glow goes?” and tugs at her sweatpants - because his jaw drops all the same, and he loses all his words again, this time in the quiet of their skin.

-

Emma doesn’t _need_ confirmation, she really doesn’t. The feeling of Killian’s hand on her back is enough, the forehead kisses, the gentle smiles, it’s all the confirmation she needs really - but Mary Margaret on the other hand is still downright suspicious of Killian, never getting over the fact that they never told her they were lying to get into the apartment. So, Emma does it. Mainly to calm her friend so she stops sending death glares Killian’s way every time they have dinner and so she’ll stop insinuating that Emma actually _is_ radioactive every time she kisses Killian.

(Mainly to get Ruby to stop playing ‘Radioactive’ and ‘Electric Feel’ every time she enters a room.)

(Mainly to get Mulan to stop pretending that she isn’t laughing every time she passes them in the hallway, and stop _loudly_ whispering to Lance, “I’m so glad that I can still take their money without dishonoring my parents.”)

They get it done on campus because it’s easier that way and one of Mary Margaret’s one night stands, Victor Whale works at the local hospital and feels sufficiently threatened by David to do the testing for free.

“You can hold my hand if you want,” Killian teases as she pulls him into the room with her.

“I think I will,” Emma replies and grabs his hand, squeezing not so tightly, but a warning, ‘You did this to yourself, buddy. Payback is just a needle prick away.’

Before Whale stabs the needle into her skin, she draws him down with her free arm and presses a kiss to his cheek, just to see him glow when she says, “I love you.”

Not that she _needs_ to, of course. She just likes the aesthetic.

-

The glow goes _all_ the way down, but Killian refuses to confirm this for Will.

“Find your own bloody soulmate,” Killian says.

He drags out the word, and Will might be a menace to rival the devil himself, but he doesn’t mention that so Killian opts to forgive him for breaking into his apartment and his bedroom again. He even forgives Will for drinking his (much cheaper, this time) bottle of rum.

Emma, on the other hand, _never_ forgives him for the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A major thank you to everyone who liked, followed, commented on this (what was meant to be a oneshot) fic. I'm so glad you enjoyed it!


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